


Diamond of the Season

by nutshikas



Category: Love Island (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Internalized Misogyny, One-Sided Attraction, Regency Romance, tagging this is complicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29482800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutshikas/pseuds/nutshikas
Summary: London's social season is a most anticipated affair for the young lords and ladies of the ton. Blake's debut season ends up more like a nightmare.It's all Sophia's fault.
Relationships: Blake & Henrik, Blake/Main Character (Love Island), Henrik/Main Character (Love Island), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	Diamond of the Season

**Author's Note:**

> For the monthly prompt competition from r/LITGFanFiction on Reddit
> 
> I have a crush on Blake and did way more research than I would like to admit for this, big oof. This takes place during the London social season in the early 1810s, which typically lasted from late January to July when Parliament reconvened. It's also SUPER loosely based on a scene from Bridgerton.
> 
> Thanks to my best friend Brittany for beta reading this and listening to me gush about the idea when they literally don't know a thing about LITG

**Late January**

“She’s dancing with him _again_ ,” she seethes. “ _Honestly_ , one dance I might understand, but two in a row? Have they no shame?”

Angrily she watches as Baron Henrik Östberg twirls Sophia Fletcher about the dance floor, giggling with one another as if they were a pair of children still in their leading strings. A particularly undignified snort can be heard coming from this season’s Incomparable, a most embarrassing sound indeed, though that does not seem to dim the light in the flaxen haired man’s eyes one bit.

“What an unruly girl,” Blake scoffs as another spike of jealousy runs down her spine. “What on earth was the Queen thinking choosing _her_?”

To their credit, Siobhan and Emily acknowledge her complaints with little more than a subtle roll of their eyes. Normally they would have abandoned her by now, or perhaps even scolded her for kicking up a fuss in such a public space. Today it seems they’ve more or less settled for quiet disappointment.

That is, until Emily opens her oversized mouth.

“Perhaps if you actually spoke with Lord Östberg he’d be more amenable to a dance with you,” the petite blonde suggests flatly, and isn’t that just like her; always the first to present solutions yet never acting upon them herself. _A true hypocrite if there ever was one_ , she grouses bitterly, watching helplessly as Henrik pulls Sophia from the floor and over to the refreshments.

She tries not to linger on the way the other girl’s silhouette stands out so completely among the other women on the floor, explains it away as a disgusted appraisal just as something bubbles up inside her chest. Hatred takes many forms, she reminds herself silently, and this is just another way it has chosen to manifest.

“Pray tell, sweet Emily, where I asked for your input,” she snips back. The way Emily withers and sniffs her disapproval beside her should be enough to stop Blake in her cruelty but she continues regardless, adding, “It appears as though Lord Koh is quite taken with Chelsea, though I suppose since no-one else has deigned it appropriate to make their presence known to him I cannot be surprised.”

At her other side, Siobhan snorts and glances around the ballroom, thoroughly unamused by her friends’ squabbling. “You could always find someone else to dance with,” she offers, completely uninterested, and Blake decides she’d be happier with two blessedly silent rabbits for friends than the loons she’s been saddled with. _They’d be smarter at least._

“If I were to entertain another man,” she growls through clenched teeth, “then he would simply ask her to dance _again_. I believe it’s already been established after the last two bloody balls we’ve been to that he is incapable of envy.”

This is all that wretched Sophia’s fault anyway.

Her mother, the Viscountess Fletcher, having passed from a still unknown condition just before the previous season began, had caused a delay of Sophia’s debut as her family mourned. Honestly, what a useless, inconsiderate old hag. Couldn’t she have died this season instead? Perhaps then Blake would have had a chance! How is one to compete with the likes of a girl so beautiful the ton itself is willing to look past her obvious lack of decorum, of training, of proper rearing?

As it stands now, the insufferable Incomparable of this year’s social season has not only the majority of London’s suitors’ attentions, but the affection of Lord Östberg, a man which Blake has set her sights on long before her debut. Truly, it is an insult beyond all others, and for that the younger woman shall never forgive her.

She decides now is the perfect time to take her leave and catches the attention of her mother who has been standing quite disappointedly with the other girls’ mamas. No other man has approached her tonight and she feels her presence as a wall decoration will not be missed.

If she seeks Sophia’s figure out on her way to the entrance hall she tells herself it’s only to locate Henrik. He never leaves her side after all, and she has always been the easier of the two to find.

~+~+~+~

**February**

With a huff she takes off in the direction of the ballroom terrace, intent on breathing fresh air. Lord and Lady Khatri’s ballroom has always been far too stuffy for her taste, though it could just be because she can’t stand Priya’s particular decorative proclivities. She’s lonely without her friends, as annoyed as she is by the sentiment. These balls were always easier to stomach when she had others to commiserate with. Siobhan is off on her honeymoon galavanting across Greece, and Emily…

Well, some things are better left forgotten.

Finally, after navigating through the increasingly disorienting cacophony of the ballroom, she is able to embrace the feeling of at the light evening breeze tickling her bronzed skin.

It’s far more peaceful here, reflective and refreshing in its nature. The gardens are quite beautiful at night, she must give the Khatris that.

An endless maze of flowering hedges and soft wisteria trees line its far edge to create a makeshift curtain signifying the boundary of their lands. A marble fountain resides unassuming in the center of the maze, the gentle light of what must be a thousand floating candles reflecting delicately off its still surface. She thinks she could spend her entire night out here, staring up at the stars, alone in her own world. Her prospects have all but dried up as of late, no thanks to Emily’s scandal, damn it all.

Perhaps if she stays here forever the ton will simply forget she exists.

God is, unfortunately, not on her side today (though she supposes He’s never truly favored her much), and the one person she was hoping to avoid for the remainder of the season chooses that exact moment to walk out onto the terrace.

“Blake,” she states, more in surprise than greeting.

The taller girl struggles not to immediately insult her. As angry as she is, Blake doesn’t fancy earning the ire of the only members of the ton who are still willing to engage in conversation. She supposes it would be quite improper to inform the season’s diamond of just how gaudy her gown looks or how frizzy her ringlets have become since her arrival.

“Sophia,” she grumbles, a bit rougher than originally intended.

When the other girl does not leave her side as she had previously expected, she heaves what she hopes is a put-upon sigh and spares her rival only the slightest glance. Almost immediately she crinkles her nose at the sight of her gown. Honestly, first pick at the greatest fabrics at the modiste and she wears it like a bloody _curtain_. What is one to do with such boundless beauty if her gowns swallow her so?

“You certainly have… _striking_ taste in evening gowns.” Blake makes a more obvious show of looking her up and down. “Always one to stand apart from the crowd, I suppose.” A soft smirk pulls at the edge of her lips when she spots the corner of Sophia’s eye twitching imperceptibly. _Got her_.

Ever one for public appearances even when no-one is around Sophia simply smiles, fake and pleasant in that way she loathes the most. “Why thank you, Miss Montague,” she responds airily, looking past her across the room at someone the taller girl cannot see. “That is quite the compliment, especially from someone with your–” she takes a moment to look the other up and down, just as she had not even a moment before “– _impeccable_ personal flair.”

Blake suddenly decides she dislikes the outdoors and turns her back on the gardens to leave. Fletcher is much closer than she previously thought, it seems, as they are practically nose to nose when she does. With a sound of thinly veiled disgust she physically recoils from the other woman. Sophia says nothing, simply watches with a smug sort of amusement as the taller considers how she might make her escape. The air between them has become awkward, heated, and something more she cannot quite place and she resolves to make haste lest she explode.

“Well, I suppose I should–”

“How is Emily?” Sophia asks suddenly, and whatever excuse Blake might have been trying to make immediately dries up. Rage and something else well up from deep within, her heart threatening to shatter her ribcage. “I’ve heard some… whisperings and was wondering after her recovery. Her… ankle, how does it fare?”

It’s as if the wind has been knocked out of her lungs by the audacity of the woman before her. She doesn’t appear insincere but certainly isn’t looking very friendly either and Blake is so _sick_ of propriety and decorum and the entire bloody ton that she snaps, “I should think that is none of your business. Emily is unwell and should recover soon enough.”

Doe eyes widen as she closes the space between them once again. She’d never considered the height advantage she has before now and, forcing herself to push aside the fact that up this close she can discern the pleasing scent of lilac and gooseberry and glowers. So near they are to each other she can almost feel the delicate scrape of honeyed strands which drape quite tastefully over a lace décolletage. Goosebumps rise along the length of her arms as the hitch in the other girl’s breath tickles the line of her collarbone.

An errant curl has sprung free of its styling and catches awkwardly around the curve of her ear. Blake finds herself almost leaning in to push it back into place but stops when she spots the wicked twinkle in the other’s eye. She manages to snap herself from her contemplations and sneers at the other girl, an admittedly unattractive expression to make, but it gets her message across. This time it is Sophia who recoils, and without further comment she retreats to Henrik’s side back in the ballroom.

Blake sniffs disapprovingly, her stomach twisting unpleasantly as she watches the smaller girl take his arm in a decidedly improper show of affection.

What a dreadfully unpleasant young woman.

~+~+~+~

**Early March**

Married life is nothing short of completely and totally unpleasant, though she supposes that’s what happens when your father is forced to literally bribe a man into proposing. Her three elder sisters continue to remind her she was lucky an offer was made in the first place, especially after her disastrous debut and continued failure to live up to her family’s expectations.

Sir Jakub is an honorable soldier, and it is a respectable marriage, though her father’s unspoken disapproval at marrying beneath her station does not go unnoticed. Their home is nothing if not extravagant, he has some money at least, but his company is far from stimulating and she finds herself more often than not drifting to better days, when Emily was not disgraced so and Siobhan was willing to speak more than five words to her at a time.

Occasionally she will spare a thought for the newly minted Baroness Sophia Östberg, of fights at the modiste for the softest silks and clever barbs exchanged across the refreshment table. Those thoughts and the resulting feelings are quickly locked away as she vehemently reminds herself that that awful woman has stolen her only chance of happiness away.

Not even an invitation to their _reception_ had been extended to the Zabinskis and Blake was subsequently forced to suffer the rest of the week hearing about what an extravagant affair it was.

Since her marriage to Sir Jakub, Blake has not attended a single social function, accredited more to her incredible embarrassment of the man’s extra-marital activities than what anyone in the ton exclaims. What some may presume to be a raucous honeymoon is, in fact, Blake’s greatest nightmare, especially because of the low-status women he tends to keep.

It comes as a surprise to her, then, when she receives an invitation to the recently widowed Countess Charlotte Beaumont’s card night. Her husband does not notice her leave, he’s got a new girl on his arm tonight and by the looks of her dress they’ve already soiled the back gardens, a favorite spot of his for seducing his more promising prospects.

Before long she is settled uncomfortably at a table with Priya, Charlotte, Sophia, and another woman she has never met before but thinks she’s seen her speaking with Lord Koh. Sophia hardly acknowledges her, choosing instead to lean in and whisper in the mystery woman’s ear, and Blake bristles at the sight. She spends the remainder of the night attempting to take all of the new Baroness’ winnings and instead loses almost all of her pin money to the stranger.

More than once, Priya and Charlotte, or Lottie as the others call her, giggle and whisper over Blake as if she is not seated between them about the passionate friendship the other present women have.

“Both of you understand I am just here, do you not?” she eventually snaps.

She continues muttering on about insufferable gossips and unintentionally catches Sophia’s attention for the first time that night. Murmuring something in the other woman’s ear, there is a wicked grin on her face as the two share a smoldering look and rise from the table.

Blake’s anger spikes in that moment as she catches the Baroness’ hand at the small of the stranger’s back.

“Marisol and I will be taking our leave, Lottie,” Sophia announces, to which the other woman simply nods and waves her off.

“So be it, Sophia,” she sighs, long suffering but with a knowing smile.

The two exit the room with haste, dodging various other ladies of the ton Blake simply can’t be bothered to remember. Priya and Charlotte try to pull her into their conversation to no avail, and eventually she makes the decision to retire early and pointedly ignores the same common girl hurrying out the front door just as she arrives.

~+~+~+~

**Late March**

Despite the Zabinskis’ lower status, they are still invited to various social events, however few that may be. At every party, ball, and concert she seeks Sophia out. She tells herself it’s for Henrik’s sake. If his wife is unfaithful, and to a woman no less, he should be the first to know.

The thought of Sophia flirting and engaging with someone other than Henrik angers her, embarrassingly so. She explains that away too, deciding it is not right for her to flounce her obvious affections for this Marisol woman when she has stolen Blake’s only chance at true happiness from under her nose. Why should she get to thrive while Blake suffers in a loveless marriage with reduced social standing? What is fair about that?

Were they men, she might have challenged the other woman to a duel for her continued insolence and insult.

The routine is the same: Henrik arrives with his wife, they share a dance if necessary, some conversation with their friends, and then the two part ways. The Baron will meet with Lord Koh, his most trusted friend, and Marisol whisks the more petite woman away to a more intimate corner where they simper and gossip and stand _far_ too close for Blake’s liking.

Jakub has already left her side, having caught the eye of the soprano the Earl Rochbert Fitzgerald has hired for the evening. Lord Fitzgerald’s reputation as a rake precedes him, and so this particular party is much more raucous than normal, with aerial dancers floating in every corner of the room on their trapezes of silk and a fair few women she is sure work at a brothel in the slums.

“It seems a bit surprising,” a voice comes from behind her, causing her to freeze, “to see you at a party such as this.”

Blake does not turn, refuses to give the other woman the satisfaction of seeing how deeply she is frowning. Briefly she recalls her mother warning her of wrinkles, of the perils of a less than perfect complexion.

If the corners of her mouth intentionally pull further downward, deepening her frown, nobody will ever known.

The brush of silk against her shoulder startles her from her brooding and she plasters the fakest smile she can onto her face, though she is certain Sophia is the last person to care. Neither of them look at the other, and it is indecently improper, but the other women never has been one for proper mannerisms.

“Saint Rocco appears to be having a wonderful time,” Sophia continues on, as if the two were old friends gossiping in a corner. She wonders briefly if this is the way Marisol speaks to her.

Lady Östberg gestures across the ballroom and Blake supposes she could look just this once, crinkling her nose when she spots Lord Fitzgerald drunkenly entangled with a recently widowed woman whose name escapes her. “You’d think he would have the awareness to conduct his business behind closed doors,” she finds herself saying before she can remind herself just who it is she’s around. “Though I suppose we should be thankful for his veracity.”

She should not be so pleased by the gentle laughter that comes from her side.

Any mirth she might have felt from their brief interaction dissipates as she remembers why she is truly here. “Where is your friend tonight?” she inquires carefully, rolling her eyes when she catches sight of Jakub speaking far too closely with one of the aerial dancers.

Sophia snorts, “I suppose that’s one word for Henrik, though I–”

“I meant your other friend,” she almost snaps, and just the _thought_ of Marisol drives a knife through her gut. “The one from Lady Beaumont’s party.”

Were it not for the constant feeling of silk on her exposed arm she would think Sophia had already left. She can feel wide, chestnut colored eyes boring into the side of her head but she cannot rouse the courage to look in the other’s direction.

“You truly confound me so,” Sophia mutters. It’s as if she were not meant to hear it, but she does, and it makes her angry, because who is _she_ to say something like that to her?

“I suppose that makes two of us,” Blake snorts in reply, her patience thoroughly run out. “Concern does not suit you, Lady Östberg. You come off more as a meddlesome wench than a genuine friend.”

Sophia bristles at the comment and Blake doesn’t have to look at her to tell she’s frowning, she can bloody feel it piercing into the side of her skull. “My apologies, Lady Zabinski. I do hope you and your _… loving_ husband are well.”

Once again that unknown emotion wells up within her but she pushes it aside in favor of purposely knocking her arm against the other woman as she leaves the ballroom.

~+~+~+~

**April**

One of Jakub’s friends from the war, Sir Robert McKenzie, is throwing a party and has deigned it appropriate to extend an invitation to Blake as well. Nowadays her husband goes along on his own, but this messenger was quite insistent that she attend.

When they arrive at Sir Robert’s expansive apartment, Blake is immediately assaulted by a whirl of smoke and laughter. The hallway is hot, sticky even, and Jakub has somehow disappeared without her notice. She stumbles along alone, entirely out of her element as she watches men ravishing women against the walls, on the banisters, within every room she tries to duck into.

Her host is currently squeezed into an overstuffed armchair with Chelsea draped across his lap. The blonde stifles her giggling as he kisses a teasing trail up her long, pale arm before he all but _attacks_ her neck. Bugger it all, how’d she ever end up like this? The pink of Chelsea’s cheeks almost rival her dress and Blake finds she cannot look away until Sir Robert makes direct eye contact with her, a disarmingly easy grin working to only slightly soothe her wildly beating heart.

“Glad to have ye here, lass,” he tells her in a thick Scottish brogue that sends her head into a tailspin. She can only nod and curtsy awkwardly, an action which makes the handsome young man throw his head back and howl with laughter before he casually shoos her away.

The smoke of cigarettes and something foul smelling but intoxicating regardless mixes pleasantly with the flickering candlelight, a haze styling upon the partygoers who appear to be lost in their own worlds. Jakub is nowhere to be found, though she supposes she should be grateful for that.

At the end of the hallway is the only closed room on the ground floor, opulent double mahogany doors which appear far too inviting to be passed up. Perhaps, she considers silently, she might find respite from the raucous group in the hall. She takes a gentle hold of the handle and pushes the door open with the confidence of anyone who might be simply opening a door, unprepared for the surprise waiting on the other side.

Sophia is propped on top of a bureau, though the only indication of it being her are the long, honey-colored locks spilling over her shoulders. Unwittingly following the curve of one of her exposed breasts down the remaining length of her torso, Blake’s breath catches when she sees Marisol bent on her knees with her head buried beneath the smaller woman’s skirts.

A breathy moan is pulled from her petal pink lips and the Baroness raises her head minutely at the sound of the door slamming against the wall, an accident on Blake’s part for letting such a heavy door fall from her slackened grip. Doe eyes widen in surprise and shock as she stares, open-mouthed, at her unexpected guest. Marisol either does not hear or does not care to acknowledge her presence, as she slides a hand into the depths of her gown to join wherever her mouth has gone.

Blake slams the door again, this time to shut it, before deciding it is time to take her leave. She stumbles clumsily through the hallways, barely acknowledging the presence of Lord Ibrahim Balfour, who is entangled with not one but two tradeswomen, Shannon and Josephine, her hazy mind supplies.

It is a struggle to even breathe in this oppressive environment, the haze more frightening now than it was previously with everything she has been forced to take in. Sure, she had a _suspicion,_ had been watching her because she thought this might occur, but to have those suspicions confirmed so fully is a whole other monster to tackle.

Her emotions swirl unevenly in her pounding head as she stumbles through the doorway and out into the night. Once she’s managed to catch her breath she flags down her husband’s carriage and orders his coachman to take her home at once.

Jakub can find his own way home tonight.

~+~+~+~

**May**

Once she’s able to properly process the emotions she felt on that night, Blake finds herself at the mercy of her swirling anger. First at Jakub for allowing her along, then at Sir Robert for having the party in the first place, and finally with Sophia, the image of whom has not left her even as she sleeps.

Honestly, having to see that awful woman at every social event is tiring enough, but to suffer through thoughts of that insufferable brat day and night is beyond any pain she has ever experienced. Her muddled feelings from before are now clearer than they have ever been, and in their realization an intense hatred has finally been fully realized.

The title of Lady Östberg should have been hers. As the fourth and youngest daughter of the Montague family it should have been _her_ to be named the Incomparable, the diamond, the most desirable young debutante of the season. All of it has been stolen out from under her, the proverbial rug yanked from beneath her feet before she ever thought to check for it.

Sophia Östberg has absolutely _everything_ that should have been hers: her pre-ordained title of Incomparable, the only man she will ever love, the social status and life she has always wanted and _deserved_ to have, the bloody _friends_ to spend her free time with! She may not be a patient woman but surely simpering over her mindless needlework with a circle of other ladies is far better than the stifling feeling of desperate loneliness she has been forced to endure these past few months.

Surely she cannot be blamed for what will happen next, what must happen if she is to retain a single shred of her dignity, damn the backlash she is sure to experience and damn the remainder of the ton.

Her opportunity comes when it is the Zabinskis who hold a party. Jakub, the beautiful, beautiful fool, invites his mates to come, a group of whom happens to include Lord Östberg and his adulteress of a wife. When they enter the ballroom and greet their hosts the way that is traditionally proper, Henrik with a nod and Sophia with a deep curtsy, it is almost laughable how little Jakub expects his wife to take advantage.

When Sophia rises, expecting a curtsy in response, Blake schools her expression into one of bored neutrality, the same blank stare she has seen her mother fix on her father in the years leading up to now. The women continue to stare at one another, holding up the guests who have queued up behind the Östbergs, confused muttering and gasps filling the air as Blake’s expression remains satisfyingly expressionless.

Henrik realizes what has occurred before Sophia and takes her arm gently in an attempt to tug her away. A few women behind them laugh and giggle behind their fans as they watch the embarrassing scene unfold. Finally, it seems to dawn on Sophia what this means, and her expression falls from one of pleasantness to confusion to an ugly, twisting anger the likes of which the ton has surely never seen.

“You truly esteem me so little?” the smaller woman demands, an almost panicked tone to her voice.

Blake simply continues to stare.

~+~+~+~

**June**

The cut direct is the ultimate social blow. Done correctly it could cripple the reputation of the recipient, reducing them to a mere footnote in the ton’s history. To have a woman of such status as Lady Blake Zabinski attempt it with a Baroness is laughable, but truly she had no choice. She does not regret her actions, though they were not nearly as satisfying as she originally believed they would be.

Still, Blake reflects. Perhaps, she thinks, she has jumped to conclusions in thinking Sophia was responsible for every slight that has occurred in her life. Neither of them chose to have such expectations set upon them, and she is sure the other girl faced a similar feeling of panic when she debuted as well. She is tired, she decides; tired of being angry, tired of holding this over Sophia, tired of facing the ever-present ire of the ton.

Reminding herself of what the former Incomparable is actively doing to Henrik, her first and only love, is the only thing that keeps her clinging to her bitter feelings of hatred.

No invitations are extended to the Zabinskis for weeks and if the way Jakub stomps about the house cursing every servant who is unfortunate enough to cross his path says anything, his lady callers have dried up following his wretched wife’s further descent into obscurity.

God has a funny way of showing his admiration for someone so determined to take command of their own fate it seems, and so an invitation does eventually make its way into her husband’s hands. Said invitation is from none other than the Baron Östberg with a light hearted request for a short peacemaking before the remainder of the guests are to arrive. Jakub will hear nothing of his wife’s protestations and claims this is the only way to make amends.

Conveniently, they are so late the peacemaking cannot occur. Blake supposes she should once again credit her husband, this time for how image obsessed he is. Perhaps if they had suggested a time forty minutes earlier in the evening they would have made it with time to spare.

The ballroom goes silent when they make their appearance, with a few choice comments thrown at Blake from a few of the other ladies. Siobhan stands to the side with her husband and a few other married couples and pointedly looks away when the taller woman attempts to make eye contact.

She should have expected that, but it stings regardless.

The evening is about as smooth as she expected, with the other members of the ton giving her a wide berth and pulling Jakub away any chance they get. Silently she seethes, supposing this must have been an elaborate joke to Sophia, a way to get back at her, to show her just how undesirable she has become.

Her anger has reached its boiling point when she notices Henrik, Sophia, Lucas and Marisol huddled together in a corner. The smaller woman deliberately places her hand around Marisol’s waist in an open display of affection, leaning in no doubt to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, and something snaps deep within her. Before long she has crossed the length of the dance floor and planted herself firmly behind her hostess, drawing with her the attentions of the entire room to what is expected to be the blow-out of the season.

“Have you no _shame?_ ” she demands in a shrill tone she’s never heard before, gripping tightly to Sophia’s shoulder and spinning her around. “Could you not wait until you are in private to flounce your impropriety in front of others?”

Soft gasps and exclamations of surprise sound from the small crowd of men and women surrounding them and only then does she realize the true weight of the statement she has just made. What was meant to be no more than a harsh whisper had come out as more of an enraged and entitled bark, though the younger woman truly cannot find itself in her to properly _care_.

Sophia is shocked into silence before a thunderous rage mirroring the same expression she received the last time they met replaces it. “I believe,” she murmurs quietly, so quietly Blake must strain to hear it, “we should take this conversation elsewhere.”

Stepping forward in a rare show of possessiveness, Henrik offers to accompany them but his wife shakes her head in answer. “This is between us, my love,” she says so easily Blake’s stomach twists in disgust. There is no time for a retort as she is spirited through the grand doors and into a far less populated room near the refreshment table.

“How dare you,” Sophia snaps the moment she’s sure they are truly alone. “While I have only known you to be a petty and spiteful woman I must confess I never thought you capable of sinking to such depths.”

Absolutely gobsmacked by the smaller woman’s gall, Blake openly gapes as she thinks up a proper retort. Instead of the eloquent response she had been meticulously planning since receiving her invitation, she says, “You’re literally fucking that woman behind your husband’s back and you think you have any room to speak of my character?”

At her response, Sophia physically recoils, a stricken look on her face. Surely what she’s said is the simple truth. Why then, does the other look so completely destroyed by her accusation?

“Do you not understand what it is like,” she continues, spurred on by her sudden fury-fueled confidence, “to watch the man of your dreams falls for another woman, only to find out she simply is not interested in him? That he is a mere cover for her scandalous actions? Was it not enough to be named the Incomparable, you had to take him from me too?”

And there it is. These feelings which she has sat with for the entirety of the season, turned over for ages within her own head, have finally been voiced. For some reason, now that they are out in the open, they do not feel right. Before she can say anything to jump to her own defense the scent of lilac and gooseberry tickles her senses as it had all those months before.

Quite suddenly she realizes the woman before her is just that: a grown woman. No longer do her gowns hang off her like the drapes of her mother’s drawing room. Rather, the fabric accentuates the soft curvature of her body as she draws herself up to the tallest height she could possibly muster.

Only when Sophia yanks her closer so they may see eye to eye does Blake remember she is not here to take in the changes in her rival’s appearance. God but is she beautiful.

“My _husband_ ,” she seethes softly, the deceptively strong grip on her arm tightening enough Blake fears she will be bruised tomorrow, “is fully aware of my condition and is, in fact, quite supportive, seeing as he and Lord Koh are in a similar predicament.” The taller girl spares a glance at Sophia’s husband and finds he is, in fact, standing quite close to the dashing older man, perhaps too close for a public setting, and it is all suddenly made clear. “I should thank you to keep your unsightly nose out of my business. It was not my wish to be chosen as the diamond of the season. Honestly, such a title is laughable, as I have not truly been able to chase after that which I hold dearest.”

At once, the older woman looks exhausted. Perhaps she has also grown tired of their spiteful little game.

Rather than continue their conversation, Sophia turns on her heel and plasters on her fakest smile, nodding and curtsying in acknowledgment of various guests as she takes her leave.

“Wait!” Blake calls, suddenly, softly. Against all odds, Sophia does, though she only spares her a cursory, questioning glance over her shoulder. Drawing up her courage, she approaches the other woman and stares directly, deeply, into toffee colored eyes.

There are so many things she would like to ask. Those concerns she’s held so close to her chest, clung to like a precious diamond, don’t seem so important now as she watches the other woman’s expression crumble further under the pressure of their shared silence.

She’s not sure what she should say, or even wants to, until the words bubble up from deep within her chest and she blurts out, “Do you love her?”

Something changes then, a flash of something, sadness, longing perhaps, in those deep orbs that Blake desperately wants to understand.

She responds then, softer than Blake has ever heard her, void of all pretense as she responds, “No. But I should think the true object of my affections thinks quite poorly of me.” She turns then, that ever-fake smile stretching back across petal pink lips as she says, “Heaven only knows how I came to hold any affection for her.”

Not for the first time Blake is left alone with the scrutiny of the ton burning holes into her back as she takes her early leave.

~+~+~+~

**July**

Against all odds, Jakub manages to procure an invitation to the final ball of the season. Blake’s attendance has somehow been approved (Lord only knows how that happened in the first place), and she does not put up as much of a fuss as her husband clearly expected her to.

Especially when he announces the ball is being thrown by Sophia’s best friend, and brand new Duchess of Wellington, Chelsea Sehgal.

When he asks her why she’s so suddenly amenable to the idea of being in the same room as Lord and Lady Östberg she simply shrugs and waves him off, feigning a greater interest in her needlework than the news he’s just presented her.

The truth is, she’s far more excited to see the Östbergs, more importantly Sophia, than she would like to admit. Following the smaller woman’s choice to bow out rather than stay and continue with their squabble, Blake found she could not sleep. Of course, this was not an odd occurrence for her, she had not had a full night’s rest since Sir Robert’s party, but now her fitful dreams featured something entirely different, something too intimate for her to dare speak aloud.

It was all Sophia Östberg’s fault.

Blake had always assumed they were on the same page in their rivalry, in their anger, in their blatant hatred of one another. After a thorough examination of her behavior over the past few months, the dark haired woman had come to the harrowing conclusion that she had been the instigator for the majority of their tumultuous relationship. It turned out that Sophia did not, in fact, fit the mold of a villain of any form. Once she’d reconciled that fact, the following realization was not as difficult to swallow, though it still came with its own heart-rending torments.

She mulls over her more recent and admittedly frightening revelations as she sits across from her husband. For some reason the silence of the ballroom following their arrival does not bother her as much as she descends the steps into the main ballroom with as much grace as she can muster. Cautiously, she scans the room for Sophia. It should be no trouble for her, she’s always been good at picking the smaller woman out of the crowd.

Within seconds she locates the other woman standing beside Henrik and Lucas, sipping brandy from a delicate glass and laughing along with something the bachelor of the group has said. Planting herself in the most isolated corner she possibly can, Blake searches the area for Marisol and tries not to feel too pleased with herself when she realizes Marisol is nowhere in sight.

It is a small victory but a victory regardless as she allows herself to think that this could be a sign. Maybe Sophia still wants her.

After everything that’s happened it would be far too much to approach the Baroness. She has slighted her far too often and far too aggressively for it too possibly be an accepted gesture. Even if she were to get Sophia to agree to a conversation, her husband may not be so willing. Perhaps next season they can start fresh, rekindle a relationship that went sour far too soon to have been natural.

It’s hard not to picture how effortlessly she might have fit at her side had she not been so clouded by her own anxieties. They could laugh and gossip together, attend ladies’ nights with one another and sneak away when the tension between them pulled taut enough it was tangible.

Eventually the air in the ballroom becomes too much and her warring thoughts have become far too overwhelming as a woman who is decidedly not Marisol but a threat nevertheless brushes a bit too closely to Sophia for her liking. Before taking her leave of the room she places the drink she’s been nursing all night onto a passing servant’s tray, choosing to retreat to the gardens rather than wallow in her self loathing at home.

Chelsea has truly outdone herself with the decor tonight as bouquets of candles carved to look like oversized roses line the row leading to the center of their immense garden landscape. Choosing to hide behind the far side of the overly large fountain tucked into a corner of the garden, Blake lies on the cobblestone ground and stares up at the stars. Her back will ache tomorrow and she is certain her gown has been ruined but after the absolute catastrophe her life has been over the past few months she cannot find it in her to care.

Once she would have loved to bring Henrik here, would have liked it even better if he proposed in front of a fountain just like this. No matter how hard she tried in the beginning though, her fantasies have only ever involved an entirely different blonde, those visions and dreams overflowing with soft words of encouragement whispered in the glow of candlelight.

“Are you quite well, angel?”

Bugger it all if that wasn’t the most beautiful voice she’d ever heard.

“Haven’t you heard? Star gazing is the popular pastime in Paris,” Blake teases back softly, though it comes out more stilted than she originally intended.

When the feeling of soft silk brushes against her arm her heartbeat quickens, a trail of goosebumps rising in the fabric’s wake as Sophia takes her place on the ground. Beside her, the Baroness attempts to find a comfortable position on the increasingly painful cobblestone path. Eventually it seems she’s given up, sighing heavily as she curls into the taller woman’s side.

“Where is Marisol?” Blake asks because apparently she cannot simply savor a moment that will certainly never happen again.

Rather than take offense, Sophia snorts, taunting her in reply, “Always a jealous one, weren’t you?” She supposes that’s true though she scowls regardless. “Marisol was seeing someone at the same time as me. She’s recently returned from her travels and they haven’t left the house in weeks.” Before Blake can say anything remotely disparaging of the absent woman, she places a calming hand on her arm. “We were never exclusive, Zabinski. I knew she’s in love with Elisa. Anyone can see they’re meant to be.”

With a snort, Blake replies, “And you think we are?”

It takes a moment for her to register Sophia’s lack of a response. Hesitantly, she turns her head, an action that proves to be more painful than she originally thought. There’s one particularly obnoxious pebble that digs painfully into her spine but from the way the other woman’s eyes are shining she finds she truly doesn’t care much.

“Of course,” she murmurs, and even she seems surprised at the sincerity of her words.

Without even realizing it she’s moved closer to the smaller woman, the strangely comforting fragrance of lilac and gooseberry completely overwhelming her as she watches doe eyes dart from her lips to her eyes and back down again. A tentative brush of lips is exchanged before Sophia, ever impatient, takes the initiative and seals their lips together in a searing caress of long-suppressed passion and love.

Upon parting, Blake takes in the pleasant flush of the older woman’s cheeks, the way her previous entanglement with the stone beneath them has tousled her hair in the most delectable way, and smiles. This smile, unlike the others she has previously thrown Sophia’s way, is real, and true, and so full of a feeling she cannot possibly begin to describe that she feels the intense urge to kiss her again.

Without need for further restraint she finds it’s the easiest thing she’s ever done.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like the fandom cryptid crawling out of my cave to throw the most random things everyone's way. 
> 
> Also for anyone who's curious, "the cut direct" is one of 4 "cut" styles of public snubbing that was performed in the Regency era, the direct being the most bold and insulting. You only used it if you were intent on personally wounding someone and it's apparently incredibly embarrassing to witness. Also, Emily's "sprained ankle" was a common excuse used for a young unmarried woman who got pregnant.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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